


Another Part of the Island

by Mira



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:16:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira





	Another Part of the Island

  
**Another Part of the Island**   


_not now_

Orlando knows he isn't as observant as Viggo, nor as sharp as John, but now he's persuaded that something has guided this cast to these shores.

Well, Pete, of course. Duh, as Elijah would say.

But more than Pete had been at work here, Orlando is sure. Pretty sure. At least, he thinks so, now that it's over and done.

There were things he didn't notice at the time, significant things that he should have seen. When he thinks back, he knows he should have noticed at least one of them; it was important to him.

_then_

They were on South Island, during those amazing rains. Poor Sean Bean. Freaked by flying, he'd ended up marooned by landslides and floods.

"I can't fuckin' fly out of here, Orli," he had said earnestly, staring into the rain that thundered down as they sat in their rental car. The rain hadn't stopped in days; in fact, it had continued to grow fiercer, occasionally frightening even Orlando, who didn't frighten easily. If jumping off the highest bridge in New Zealand wasn't a problem, why would driving in a little rain be? But the landslides washing out the roads were another matter entirely.

"Well, we can't drive," Orlando pointed out, and immediately felt stupid when Bean glared at him.

"I fuckin' well figured that out all by meself," he said, and then, sighing, slumped over the steering wheel. "Sorry, sorry. Don't mean to be such a bastard. Just." He gestured toward the windscreen. Orlando nodded.

They sat quietly for a long time, just waiting. Orlando didn't understand why Sean wanted to sit in the car when they could be indoors somewhere, but maybe the car brought him comfort.

They'd spent the night in a private home; Kiwis really were kind people, Orlando thought, welcoming two strangers foolish enough to be caught in the floods. They'd eaten spaghetti and had a bit too much to drink, and Sean had fallen instantly asleep, snoring so powerfully that Orlando, normally a sound sleeper himself, had had a restless night. They'd had to share a sofa that folded out into a bed with a remarkably thin and lumpy mattress. He'd finally shaken Sean, bending over him. A big handsome bloke but a bit twitchy in his sleep, Orlando had discovered, darting back to avoid Sean's flying hands. "What? Wha'?" Sean mumbled.

"You sound like a chainsaw," Orlando told him, feeling ridiculous.

"Sorry." Orlando didn't think he sounded very sorry. "I have trouble sleeping on me back. Just shove me over and I'll quiet right down."

"Well, then, shove over," Orlando snapped.

The next day Sean and he spent driving compulsively from one landslide to the other, back and forth, in the vain hope that the army or corps of engineers or God would magically dig the roads clear. "Sean, I'm getting dizzy," Orlando complained. Sean stopped the car, right in the middle of the road, and put his head on the wheel.

"What a bugger," he sighed, and Orlando nodded. He gingerly placed his hand on the back of Sean's neck and, when nothing happened, massaged the corded muscles there.

"What's this about?" he asked hesitantly, continuing to rub his friend's neck.

"Fuck if I know. Can't stand to be pinned down, y'know? Same as bein' in a plane, except not so high."

Orlando thought that fearing to be pinned down was an odd trait for a man who kept getting married, but exhaustion helped him remain quiet. "It'll be all right," he said at last. "Rains have to end sometime, right?"

Sean finally raised his head; he looked more tired than Orlando felt. "Right. Sorry."

"Naw. Bit of a boys' own adventure, eh?"

Sean laughed. "We'd better find a pub, then." He started the engine, reversed, and turned the car around. "Back to town. Wonder where they'll put us up tonight."

"Christ, not that same sofa-bed. Nearly did me in. That and your snoring."

"Fuck off," Sean said genially.

They drove back to where they'd spent the night before and found several cars parked in front. "Come in, boys," a white-haired woman called to them from the front door, so they did. Their host served them endless cups of tea while a dozen or so inhabitants of the hamlet talked with them about footie and the weather and the movie. "Biggest industry in NZ," someone said, and Orlando thought it must be true, if even these isolated people had heard of it.

"Looks like we'll have to bother you for another night," Sean said over his mug.

"Ah, that's fine, then," their host said. "Prim here'll take ya tonight. She has a real bedroom for ya."

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to share a bed," Prim told them, a frown creasing her forehead.

"We managed last night," Sean said.

"Well, he did," Orlando pointed out. "Snored like the devil himself."

The others laughed, although Prim still looked worried. "You could sleep on the sofa in the front room," she said doubtfully, "but you're awfully tall."

"No, it's fine," Orlando said, just as Sean said, "We'll manage." They glanced at each other and laughed. "Really," Orlando added, wanting to comfort her. "You're very kind; we're grateful."

"We are that, yeah," Sean added. "Otherwise we'd be sleeping in the car, no tea, no facilities, no good company." He raised his mug to the others, who looked pleased.

Prim's home was a tiny square building that Orlando thought had not originally been built with people in mind. But there was a minuscule bathroom and lots of hot water, so he coiled himself into the tub and relaxed, thinking how odd it was to enjoy lying in a pool of water while listening to water pour down on the tin roof above him.

He thought about the others and wondered if they missed him. What were the hobbits doing? Where was Viggo?

By dint of shoving Sean over several times an hour, Orlando was able to sleep a bit more that night. He liked sleeping with someone, and in fact had missed it a great deal while so far from home, but Sean was so much bigger than anyone he'd ever shared a bed with. There were others he would have preferred to sleep with, but under the circumstances, Sean was a good choice: warm and affable, if noisy.

The next morning when they called Peter they learned that a helicopter was being dispatched to pick them up. "Doesn't look as though the rains are gonna stop," Peter shouted down the line at them. "No driving in or out of the region. Does anyone need anything? We can bring in supplies."

By mid-afternoon, they were back in the car, waiting at the northern end of the open stretch of road. They'd said farewell to the people who'd so generously helped them, opening their homes to strangers in the midst of the deluge. Orlando had been genuinely moved by their kindness, and promised himself that he would try to follow their example more often.

He'd also enjoyed learning a bit more about Sean. Sean hadn't been available for months on end, unlike the other members of the Fellowship. He was friendly enough; you couldn't really be an actor without being friendly, Orlando had discovered, but he simply wasn't around enough or in enough scenes with Orlando for him to get to know Sean well. Now he felt he was beginning to understand him.

A good bloke, Orlando had decided, although a bit quiet around the younger members of the cast. Good looking and tough, much like Viggo. Sean had presence, too, and Orlando was determined to learn that -- whatever that was. Being an elf was helping, though; he'd learned to use his height and carriage and, though he might never be as intimidating as Sean's bulk and bearing made him, Orlando was resolute that he would be a different person when he got back to London.

Orlando knew that Sean was imagining the helicopter coming to fetch them: the thunderous blades slicing the rain-thick air, its bone-shaking vibration. "I'll puke," Sean said at last, shamefaced.

Orlando nodded, managing not to smile to himself. Everyone knew Sean had a problem with flying. Odd, since he'd flown back and forth between New Zealand and the UK more than anyone else, what with his divorce and children and various commitments. Drugged himself up on something, Elijah had told Orlando, but not even Dom laughed at Sean's distress, and Dom laughed at everyone.

Because the point was that Sean _did_ get himself onto a plane. Despite his fears and nausea, he managed.

He would puke, though.

"Here it is," Orlando said, pointing. Dimly, through the heavy mist and clouds and rain, the chopper materialized. He could feel it better than he could see it, as if the ground itself trembled before it. A bigger one than usual; Pete had probably arranged that in the fruitless hope it would comfort Sean more than one of the little grasshopper-like ones they often flew in.

"Fuckin' hell, bloody Christ, oh dear God," Sean chanted softly. "Don't tell, all right, Orli? Don't be tellin' folk about this."

"Naw," he said, trying to sound comforting. "Nobody'd care anyway," but Sean was praying again, an obscenity-strewn litany mumbled faster and faster the nearer the helicopter drew.

It set down right on the road, and why not -- no cars could come through this stretch, even if someone had been foolish enough to try in the gushing rain. Which of course, he and Sean had, but that had been three days ago.

Blades were still churning, but Orlando could see the pilot gesturing at them. "Time to go, Beanie," he said, trying to sound cheerful but dreading the prospect of running through the downpour.

"Ah, God, me poor heart," Sean moaned, but he swung open the car door and splashed out. Orlando followed, instantly soaked, hair in his eyes, feet swimming in his soggy trainers. Ducking his head and crouching, he awkwardly jogged to the gaping side of the copter. Sean was there first, pale and sweating even in the rain.

"In," he huffed, trying to shove Sean into the helicopter.

"In," he heard someone else say, and then Sean levitated up and over. Orlando jumped up, scrambled into a tiny seat, and folded himself down into it. Someone dropped a blanket on him, and he scrubbed the rain from his face, pushing back his hair, then draping the sopping wool around his shoulders.

A man he recognized from the crew stood over him. "Keys?"

"In the car."

"Right. I'm off then. Ted," he called over his shoulder. "I'll bring the car back soon as I can. I'll have your stuff with me then, too," he told Orlando, and then jumped into the rain, rucksack held over his head as he splashed to the still-open car. Once in, he slammed the doors shut and waved cheerfully, looking as if he'd enjoy nothing more than being stuck in the middle of bloody nowheresville New Zealand waiting for the rain to stop so he could ferry back the belongings of a couple of daft actors.

"Bye!" someone shouted, and Orlando watched the pilot wave again. He leaned further away from the open door as the copter began its all-too-familiar swaying motion, the vibrations growing fiercer until he feared for the fillings in his teeth.

Up they went, swinging through the sky, the world below them instantly disappearing into blue-grey fogs. The entire cabin rattled like dice in a cup, and Orlando pressed himself back into his seat as far as he could, until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

"You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm," Viggo shouted into his ear, and Orlando turned round in surprise. Viggo was sitting in the seat behind him, looking for all the world as if this were no more unusual than a Sunday morning stroll to get the papers. Next to him, almost on top of him, Sean sat swathed in towels and blankets. Pale grey and shivering, he rested his forehead on Viggo's shoulder.

"Vig!" Orlando cried in delight. "I can't believe you're here."

"Couldn't leave my elf to drown," he said, smiling at Orlando over Sean's head.

Orlando's smile felt as if it would split his face. "And now, I pray you, sir, for still 'tis beating in my mind, your reason for raising this sea-storm?"

But all Viggo would say was, "Here cease more questions: thou art inclined to sleep." And Orlando was, he discovered, very inclined to sleep, now that he was safe from the storm. He rested his head against the seat and shut his eyes. Another blanket was draped around his shoulders, and he sighed happily.

That Viggo would fly all the way to find him and Sean pleased Orlando more than he wanted to admit. He fought the smile on his face, wanting to hide it from the others. He snuggled into the blankets and yawned. "Not a hair perish'd," he thought, and safely in harbour the king's ship would be. Of course it would. This was a magic isle indeed, and Viggo was their king.

And he was still their king, even all these years later, Orlando thought, smiling despite himself and no longer hiding it. We are three men of sin, he misquoted to himself, with nothing but heart sorrow. Well, that part was true enough.

Sighing, he glanced at his watch, twisting it absently on his wrist as he leaned back in his seat, looking around the dark bar where he waited.

_or maybe then_

Or maybe he should have first noticed it at that club, when he and the hobbits were leaving. A Saturday night, and they had the next day off, so they were out late, drinking hard, dancing even harder. Even Sean Astin was there, and even Sean danced; Orlando had insisted, although Sean blushed and sweated and kept trying to sneak off the floor. Finally he prevailed, and the five of them staggered out into the chilly air. "Food," Sean had tempted them with. "We need to refuel." Even Dom had thought that a good idea, so they had conga-lined their way through the crowd and out into the damp streets.

Late. Dark. Quiet, except for their laughter and Elijah's piercing giggle. Elijah led the way, turning a corner into a very big man. "Oof!" he apologized. "I'm sorry; I wasn't looking where I was going."

Orlando looked up in time to see Elijah stagger forward; a few heartbeats passed before he realized the big bloke had grabbed him. "Wait," Elijah said, leaning backward, but he was propelled forward. Like a comedy routine, Orlando later thought, except it wasn't funny to see his friend jerked off his feet by a bloke twice his weight and size.

"Little fucker," the man growled, and Elijah squeaked.

"Hey," Sean said, and awkwardly swung up and out. To Orlando's surprise, his meaty fist caught the man square in the nose and there was a crunching sound. The man released Elijah, staggered backwards, holding his nose with both hands.

"You hit me!" he bellowed and shook his head; blood droplets flew in a fine spray.

Dom had caught Elijah and dragged him aside, holding him possessively. Orlando watched as Sean stepped forward, arm cocked again, but Billy pulled him back, pushing him into Dom and Elijah, and inserting himself between Sean and the stranger. He crouched and raised his arms; Orlando remembered that Billy had studied some martial art that Orlando could never remember the name of.

"You tiny little shit," the stranger said, enunciating each word carefully before shaking his hands and stepping forward. Orlando finally realized what was happening, shocked that he'd been that slow, and ran his fingers through his hair, still in a mohawk, trying to force himself to think, when suddenly two more figures appeared from the dark.

"Do you gentlemen need assistance?" Viggo said. Sean Bean stood silently at his side, jaw clenched, head thrust forward.

There was a brief moment during which Orlando thought he'd have to fight, have to actually hit someone, and then the stranger said, "Fuck it," and turned, walking briskly away, glancing over his shoulder. His face flashed white in the reflected streetlight, then he looked away and disappeared into the night.

"Holy fuck," Sean Astin said. "Are you okay, Lij?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Elijah said, but he sounded uncertain. Sean clutched him tighter; Orlando thought he was paler than Elijah, maybe more frightened.

He realized that he was frightened, too. His heart was pounding and his hands were slick with sweat; he wiped them on his jeans and took a deep breath.

"Taxi!" Sean Bean shouted suddenly, and Orlando flinched. A big cab trundled toward them, a more welcome sight Orlando could not remember, and he wondered if Sean and Viggo had conjured it from thin air. Sean opened the door and said, "The lot of ya -- in." He thrust his head inside and told the cabbie, "We're all crammin' in; I don' give a fuck about any laws, d'ya hear?" He leaned back and lightly touched Elijah's shoulder. "Help him in, Sean," he said.

"Come on, Lij," Sean murmured. Orlando watched as the two Seans helped Elijah into the backseat. Elijah's legs didn't seem to working right, and Orlando moved toward him to assist, but he wobbled a bit himself. Billy caught his elbow and helped him into the front seat. Sean was right; they had to cram in. Orlando and Billy ended up in next to the driver, Billy half on Orlando's lap. Elijah was on Sean Astin's, but they tended to do that anyway. Dom sat on a little fold-down seat, hands between his knees, looking unusually sombre.

Orlando took another deep breath and tried to relax. He looked at his hands; they were shaking. From the back seat, Viggo leaned forward and put his hand on Orlando's shoulder and squeezed. "It's okay," he murmured, and Orlando nodded. Billy put his hand over Viggo's, and Orlando felt his heart rate begin to slow. He sighed heavily, and Viggo sat back, glancing at Sean Bean next to him.

"It is okay," Orlando said firmly, and hugged Billy. "Elijah, dude. You okay?"

Elijah looked up. "Never better," he said, his eyes wide in the streetlights flashing past them.

"I nearly wet myself," Sean Astin said, and they laughed.

"Came a bit close myself," Orlando admitted, and Elijah giggled, finally sounding like himself. Orlando watched Dom sit up at that, shaking off the tension. "Thought you'd have to use that kung fu of yours?" Orlando asked.

"It's karate, but I'm the one with the training," Billy corrected him. "Dom here just scares 'em away with his mug."

"Oi," Dom protested, but Billy stretched his arm over the seat and rested his hand against Dom's face. Orlando tightened his grip on Billy and wondered where they were going.

Eventually they pulled up in front of Elijah's house. Orlando had hoped they were going to Viggo's. He'd been there a few times -- to a barbecue, to pick Viggo up early one morning, to return a book Henry had loaned Orlando. As Viggo and Sean Bean paid the driver, Orlando pushed Billy out for Dom to catch and then stood up, towering over the hobbits as he stretched up onto his toes, staring at the house.

A light was on somewhere inside, casting elongated shadows of Elijah's furniture against the curtained windows. Orlando followed the others to the door and then stood watching Astin, still with his arms around Elijah, fumble with keys, before letting them into the house. Orlando thought it might be days before Sean would be able to pry himself away from Elijah after what had happened. Billy was talking softly to Dom, who was listening avidly.

Sean Bean disappeared through a doorway and re-appeared a minute later with an armload of beer bottles. "Bottle opener's in me pocket," he told Viggo, tilting one hip toward him. Viggo reached in and pulled out the opener and they started an assembly line of opening beer and handing it to the others. Orlando watched, impressed and a little envious of their smooth teamwork.

Sean and Elijah sat on the sofa, Elijah leaning against Sean's chest. Billy continued to speak earnestly to Dom, who continued to focus all his considerable attention on Billy. Orlando wondered what Billy was saying so intently. "Sit down," Viggo told them. Billy glanced up and nodded, but they didn't sit, only sidled closer together, until their bowed heads nearly touched.

"You all right, Orli?" Sean Bean asked Orlando, startling him.

"Yeah, fine. Just, you know, just. Weird. A bit."

"Yeah. S'truth. Happened fast, eh?"

Orlando shook his head. "I can barely remember it. I didn't even have time to get scared till it was over, and then it hit me -- like, really hit me, you know?"

"I know, mate." Sean clinked his beer against Orlando's. "All's well, though."

Orlando took a big gulp of the beer and nodded. "Thanks to you two."

"Yeah," Elijah said, and everyone looked at him. "Thanks to you two. Where'd you come from, anyway?"

"Like Strider and Boromir, appearing out of the mists," Sean Astin said admiringly. Billy and Dom snickered, and Sean Bean laughed, a big open-mouthed laugh that filled the room, and said, "Just wanted a beer."

Viggo only smiled. "Good timing the actor makes," was all he said. Orlando raised his beer bottle to them both.

Good timing, indeed, he thought, remembering how suddenly they had appeared, looming out of the darkness into the streetlight. He gulped at his beer, wanting to erase the memory of that man grabbing Elijah, jerking him forward, whilst the rest of them stood uselessly by. He could have had a knife, and then were would they have been? What kind of friend was he? He wanted to believe that, if Sean and Viggo hadn't arrived, he would have done something. Billy certainly would have, and Dom, too, while Sean Astin had actually punched him and then hustled Elijah out of harm's way. But Orlando had just stood there and stared, stupid git. Fuck. He drank again, clinking the bottle against his teeth, and discovered his hands were still trembling.

Viggo stood beside him, silent. Heat rolled off his body in comforting waves and Orlando shuffled a bit closer, until his arm brushed Viggo's each time he raised the bottle to his mouth. Bean had settled in a dilapidated arm chair; he'd had to shove the video games and magazines off the seat, but was now sprawled in it, closely watching Elijah.

It occurred to Orlando that Elijah was young enough to be Sean's or Viggo's son. He was more than twenty years younger than either of them. Well, come to that, so was Orlando, but somehow he didn't feel that young. Maybe because he was taller, or maybe because was known for doing totally daft things and getting away with them. Or maybe it was something about Elijah that evoked concern and caring in a way that the other members of the Fellowship did not.

He sighed and leaned against Viggo, who smiled at him. "Be not afeard," he said, startling Orlando. "The isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs that delight and hurt not."

"Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices that, if I then had waked after long sleep, will make me sleep again," Bean said, his voice a deep growl.

"And then, in dreaming," Billy said, looking up from Dom, "the clouds methought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, I cried to dream again."

"Exactly," Viggo said, nodding solemnly, and Orlando thought, for a few seconds, that he understood.

Elijah yawned hugely, and Sean Astin tightened his hold on him. "Time for bed."

"No, no," Elijah protested. "I couldn't possibly sleep. Not now, not tonight. Stay here," he said to everyone, and gestured awkwardly. "I don't want anyone to go. Can't we just camp out here?"

"I vote for that," Dom said. "Bill, let's drag the mattress out here. We can share."

"I'm too old to be sleepin' on the floor," Sean Bean protested, but he stretched out in the chair, resting his feet on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He looked enormous, like a bear, and Orlando was happy he would stay. Elijah was right. They shouldn't separate, they shouldn't be alone tonight. Not tonight.

Dom and Billy manhandled Elijah's mattress into the lounge, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process, dragging the bedding along with it. "You old farts should sleep on it," Orlando said, rescuing a pillow and the duvet. He wandered up the hall, opening doors, until he found a closet with sheets and blankets in it. Heaping them up, he carried them into the front room, dropping a blanket on Bean's lap, a sheet on Elijah's, and made himself a nest against one wall.

"A sleepover," Elijah said, and Orlando thought he sounded happy. Well might he, too; all his friends and protectors not just under the same roof for the night, but in the same room. And he deserved it, Orlando thought. He was Frodo, carrying the emotional core of the movie and inspiring loyalty among these strangers, turning them into more-than-friends.

He locked himself into the bathroom and pissed, then washed his face and hands, peering into the mirror. He looked as tired as he felt.

When he finally curled up in his bedding, he watched as Sean and Elijah wrapped themselves up on the sofa, Sean's arms still around Elijah, and Elijah's hands clinging to Sean's forearms. Viggo lay across the foot of the mattress, wrapped in his long coat, whilst Dom and Billy arranged themselves together perpendicular to him. Across the room from Orlando, Sean Bean watched silently, scrunching deeper into the arm chair, looking sleepily at the others. He lifted one sock-clad foot from the coffee table and prodded Viggo's shoulder with it. Viggo took Sean's foot and began to massage it, and Orlando watched Sean's eyes close and the muscles of his face relax.

He closed his own eyes. This was too much, too intimate, to be here with his friends like this. "Brilliant," he murmured. "Fuckin' brilliant." And it was.

He woke with a start, unsure where he was. Lifting himself onto his elbows, he looked around the darkened room. He could hear someone snoring softly, and someone else shifting in his sleep. Elijah's house, in Wellington, with nearly half the cast. He sighed and lay back down, hands behind his head. What a night it had been.

And why hadn't they called the police? Instead, Viggo and Bean had just frightened the guy away, gathered them up, and hustled them home. What a weird fucking thing to have happened.

He sighed again. He had to pee. He clambered up, a bit stiff, hoping he wouldn't step on anyone. He could see the tops of Dom's and Billy's heads, gleaming in the streetlight that fell through the curtains. On the sofa, Elijah and Sean slept cuddled together.

Neither Viggo nor Sean Bean were there.

He felt his way cautiously, trying to keep his balance, until he turned the corner into the hallway. It was darker there, so he trailed one hand along the wall. Elijah had a smallish house, nothing like Orlando's, with only two bedrooms and one bath. The first bedroom Elijah had converted into a game room, with his computer and stacks of boxes of games and CDs and DVDs and video tapes. Across the hall was his bedroom, that Dom and Billy had ransacked.

Except lying on the box springs, deeply asleep, were the two men of the Fellowship, Viggo and Bean. Well, he couldn't blame them; sleeping next to Billy and Dom's stinky feet, or in Elijah's dilapidated arm chair couldn't have been comfortable. He stared at them, sprawled across the unmade bed. Pale moonlight seeping through the blinds carved the lines in Viggo's face deeper than Orlando remembered them; he looked tired, even in sleep. Responsible and serious, without the animation of his manic laugh and the fierce rugby tackles he was noted for.

Orlando yawned and scratched his chest, then returned to his corner of the lounge floor.

So that's when he should have noticed it. If he were more the observant type, which he already knew he wasn't. He was just Orlando.

He'd been thick-headed, that's all there was to it. Orlando, Orlando, he heard Dom mocking him, except not even Dom would mock Orlando over this. Well, maybe a little. But then he'd hug Orlando and buy him another pint and they'd get pished, as Billy called it, and who knows, maybe even snog a bit in the gents, just for comfort.

_not even then_

The third time had been in Osgiliath, where Legolas and Aragorn never went in the movie, but he and Vig had gone to see Sean Bean, who'd returned yet again for a wonderful speech. It had been brilliant to stand with Mark and Barry and Christian and cheer wildly at Boromir's pep talk to his Gondorian troops. Bean was so good as Boromir; pity, really, that Tolkien had killed him off so early, and a stroke of genius for Peter to keep flashing back to him. Legolas didn't seem to ever have been tempted by the Ring, but poor Boromir, who had been so tormented by it, made the ultimate sacrifice for the Ringbearer's little cousins. What a scene that had been, and done so early in the filming. Orlando had watched Sean transform himself into dying Boromir again and again and again, with Viggo crouched over him, devastated by his steward's death. "Son of Gondor" wasn't in the book, but it was so beautiful.

Orlando hadn't been watching when Viggo had kissed Sean that day. Some movement off to his left had caught his eye and he'd turned, just for an instant, when he heard Brett gasp. When he turned back, Viggo was lying awkwardly in Sean's arms, and Sean was patting his back, very unlike dead Boromir. "My god," he'd heard Philippa sigh, and even Peter looked a bit rattled.

"Fifteen minutes!" Caro had shouted, and everyone scattered as if chased. To give them time to recover, Orlando knew, and turned away as well, but slowly, slowly, unable to take his eyes off the two men, his two friends, so locked in misery.

"How will we earn that scene?" Fran asked Philippa, finally drawing Orlando's attention away from Viggo and Sean. The two women stared at each other, almost in dismay, and Orlando shared their fears. He wasn't at all certain he could rise to that level. The electricity in the air raised the hair on his arms.

Everything Viggo did was like that. He brought out the best in everyone, by giving so much. His mad laugh, uncannily like Elijah's at times, and his wild energy, much like Dom's, and his deep common sense, like Billy's -- he was the best of all of them, blended into something entirely new.

Orlando counted himself blessed that nearly all of his scenes were with Viggo. He watched closely, and learned. "You taught me language; and my profit on't is I know how to curse," he thought. Except not really. He had profited on it, genuinely profited, and working on other films, after Rings, he emulated Viggo as much as possible. He even taught himself to stop talking so much nonsense. Yet another blessing on Vig for that.

He discovered he was slouched over the table, staring earnestly at a bar mat, so he sat back in his chair and waved at the barmaid for another pint. So. The third time. The time he should have figured it out.

He'd never told anyone about it, which maybe meant at some level he had figured it out, just didn't want to admit it to himself. He'd been having too much fun in the boy's club they'd formed in New Zealand, partying too hard, sleeping too little, spending every free minute learning to be a better rider, a better archer, a better elf.

Viggo had given him the photograph of him becoming Legolas. That photo, the one everyone commented on. And why not? It was a pretty amazing picture, capturing the transformation between human and elf. Orlando actually preferred the one of Gimli, jerking away from the camera -- John had hated having his photo taken in those days, his poor face so swollen and red from the prosthetics -- and that picture captured everything for Orlando: the hard work they'd all done, the suffering they'd gone through, and yet they'd come through on the other side, transmuting themselves into magical creatures, into elves and dwarves. Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of dwarves?

But people mostly talked about his picture, with the hated contact lens en route to torture his poor eye. How Orlando had dreaded that moment every morning. It hurt him, too; not as badly as John's prosthetics had hurt him, but it had scratched his cornea a couple of times. He'd been too intimidated by the spirit of the set to ask if he was risking blindness; he just kept putting the fucking things in until he wept from the pain.

So one morning in Osgiliath, Viggo had taken the lenses from him and gone to Fran, who mothered them all. She'd driven Orlando to an optometrist herself, holding his hand whilst the doctor peered into his eyes and shaken his head. "But Peter," Orlando had said, near tears again in fear that, like Stuart, he would be released from his contract.

"Don't you worry about Peter," Fran told him, kissing his forehead right in front of the doctor. He'd been given drops and told to wear dark sunglasses, and they'd returned, Orlando feeling like a failure. Viggo didn't have to use eye drops or wear special sunglasses.

That night, Viggo and Sean had come over, well supplied with booze. "Everyone knows that Jack Daniel's Old Number Seven cures anything," Viggo had reassured him, pouring him a tumbler of bourbon. "My maternal grandmother used to fix hot lemonade with honey and bourbon as a cure-all."

"Christ," Orlando had gasped after his first sip. "What the fuck is this? Freon?"

"You wound his American sensibilities," Sean said, tossing back his glass and holding it out for a refill. "Christ, that's sweet. Typical Americans; too much sugar."

"One of my brothers drinks it with Mountain Dew."

"What the fuck is Mountain Dew?" Sean asked as Orlando sipped gingerly at his own glass.

"Uh, like lemonade, only fizzy and really carbonated," Viggo said, staring into space. "They must have Mountain Dew in England, Sean."

"Why? Because you bloody yanks have colonized us so thoroughly?"

Viggo raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "Well, yes, we have. Quite thoroughly."

The look Viggo and Sean gave each other at that moment -- that's what should have clued him in, Orlando told himself. But no.

"Quite thoroughly," he'd repeated, trying to think about how the Americans had colonized Britain, and wasn't that backwards? "In revenge?" he wondered, and Sean had laughed.

"That's it, m'boy, that's it. Payback three centuries later. That'll teach us." He took the bottle from Viggo, studying it before filling his glass and topping off Orlando's. "Not so nasty once your taste buds go numb," he said. "I prefer Pimm's and lemonade, but this'll do for tonight." He raised his glass. "To Orlando's eyes and American imperialism."

"Wait," Orlando protested, but Sean and Viggo were already drinking. "To Leggy's eyes and American imperialism," Orlando corrected him. They all drank again.

Viggo raised his glass. "To blue and brown eyes everywhere, and American imperialism." They drank again, and again, and again.

"Thank Christ for American imperialism," Sean said at one point, lying on the floor, glass balanced on his chest. "Spreading bad booze throughout the galaxy."

"Like hitchhikers," Orlando had agreed, and Viggo laughed.

"To towels and American imperialism!"

They'd drunk themselves arseholed that night, drunker than Orlando had been since he'd been in New Zealand. Not even with the hardy hobbits had he experienced a level of intoxication that profound. He remembered the night in flashes, like a light show at one of Elijah and Dom's tackier clubs, or some kind of special effect achieved by cutting out sequential frames. Flicker, flicker, flew the night. Sean on his back, laughing so hard tears rolled down the side of his head and into his hair. Viggo reciting a poem he was working on, about lights and the sea and an empty church door. Orlando trying to remember Ferdinand's speech to Miranda. Staring earnestly at Viggo, he said, "But you, O you, so perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature's best! I think. Isn't he, I mean she? Why can't I remember?"

"Alcohol," Sean said wisely, and closed his eyes.

"Our revels now are ended," Viggo added, smiling at Sean. "Perhaps we have indulged too much, dear Ferdinand?"

But Orlando was unable to reply. He lay back in his chair, head resting at an awkward angle, and watched as Viggo gathered up Sean, urging him up. "To bed, my friend," he murmured dream soft, and Sean smiled sleepily.

"You are a bad, bad influence, Viggo Mortensen," he muttered, and Orlando agreed. Feeding them foul American alcohol till all hours of the night. He felt as if he were floating, hovering just above the chair, and only the weight in his bladder kept him moored.

"Gotta piss," he said to himself, and struggled up. He grabbed one of Sean's arms and helped Viggo haul Sean to his feet, then pushed him down the long hallway of Viggo's Wellington home. "Toilet?" he asked Viggo, who nodded to his right.

"One just off the kitchen, another at the end of the hall, and one in the master bedroom."

"Jesus, Vig, how many toilets does one man need?"

"That's hardly fair, Orlando. You have three as well."

"Do I?" He had to think; he'd stayed in so many places during his time in Middle Earth. "You're right. In fact, I have four, if you count the little one in the upstairs bedroom."

"Christ, I gotta take a leak now," Sean moaned. "Stop talking about it and just get me there."

"This way," Viggo said, sliding his arm around Sean's waist.

Orlando watched them disappear into the dark hallway before turning to the kitchen. He pissed forever, sitting on the toilet because he was too loose-limbed and dizzy to stand that long. Leaning forward, he rested his head on his knees, taking deep breaths. When he'd finished, he washed his face and rinsed out his mouth, then drank as much water as he could get down.

In the mirror, his face looked pale and tragic, a Romeo rather than Ferdinand, his dark eyes smudged with dark rings of exhaustion and his hair tousled. He should call a taxi and go home, but the effort seemed beyond him, and he knew Viggo wouldn't mind if he dossed down in the lounge. The sofa here was long enough that he could stretch out.

When he finally stumbled back into the lounge, he saw that Viggo had stacked linen and a pillow on one end of the sofa, and left a bottle of ibuprofen on the cluttered end table. "Bless you," he murmured, and popped three of them.

He woke needing to piss again, the covers tossed entirely onto the floor so he had to wade through them and they seemed to clutch at his ankles. What shite is this? he asked himself, kicking at them and trying not to fall over. He made so much noise he was afraid he'd wake Sean and Viggo, but when he returned from the little toilet, the house seemed quite.

As he rearranged his bedding, he marveled at how many nights he'd done this -- slept in a strange place, his colleagues not far from him. He would miss this, he knew, when it was finally over. He'd never realized, when accepting Peter's offer so many months ago, that it would be like this: long days, long nights, laughing and drinking and getting sick, being ferried to the set and taken to the doctors, breaking bones, scratching corneas, dancing until dawn, learning about music and books and plays and acting . . .

It wouldn't be the end of the world when it was all over, he comforted himself, lying on Viggo's sofa in the middle of the night. It is what it is, as Dom would say, and Orlando had known Dom long enough to see past the superficial persona he adopted and recognize how deeply he felt things. All the boys were so much more than Orlando had first thought; he was retroactively ashamed of his assumptions about them.

Even Viggo. Or maybe especially Viggo. He'd seemed unapproachable yet unavoidable when he had first been brought in -- brooding, serious, and withdrawn. Orlando hadn't liked the change anymore than the other cast members had, but what could he do? Elijah, the youngest but the bravest, had been the first to ask Viggo out to dinner, and the next morning had confided in the others that he'd found him intimidating. "I couldn't think of anything to talk about," he'd said, leaning into Sean Astin. "I kept thinking of him in G.I. Jane."

"Shite," Billy had said, speaking for them all, and Orlando remembered nodding vigorously. Shite, indeed, to have to make room for this quiet stranger into their tight-knit group.

Orlando rolled over, facing the back of the sofa. Well, all those fears had been for naught. Viggo was crazier than any of them; a little mental, as Elijah liked to say, and every one of them had gone down in a crushing tumble when Viggo decided the set was too serious, or whatever criterion he used to determine when to tackle someone. Cast, crew, or producer: it didn't seem to matter to Viggo. Orlando had seen even Barry knocked arse-over-tits by him, and come up roaring with laughter.

He shook his head at the memory, but that made the room spin, so he shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Viggo had his own rules, that was all Orlando could be sure of. He would do whatever he felt was appropriate, no matter what the rest of the world might judge. Not anything Orlando thought he'd be capable of, no matter how old or experienced he grew, but at least he could appreciate and even envy the quality.

Best of all, Viggo was his friend, a close friend, someone he loved and someone who loved him back. Whatever had guided the cast and production had brought Viggo into Orlando's life, and he could only be grateful for that.

_but now_

"To dear friends," Orlando toasted Viggo, out loud right there in the packed hotel bar, and drank down the Guinness, slamming the mug onto the sticky table. He glanced around, but nobody seemed to notice the young man talking to himself in the midst of all that noise.

"Hey," Viggo said, and Orlando looked up in surprise. "I thought we weren't supposed to meet until ten."

"Is it ten?" Orlando asked, trying to focus on his wristwatch. "I made sure to be early."

"Come here, elf," Viggo answered, and hugged him. Orlando sank into his embrace. Viggo was just as warm and firm as always, maybe a bit thinner, but he'd been working hard.

Another arm came around his shoulders. "Poncy southerner," Sean rumbled in his ear, and Orlando slid from one embrace to another. Sean was bigger than he remembered; he hadn't seen him since the Troy premieres, and that had been a while ago.

"Muscling up, eh, Beanie?"

"Fuck off," Sean said, grinning at him. They sat, and Orlando waved yet again at the waitress, who looked quite dazzled to have three movie stars at her table.

She brought them three pints. Orlando felt a bit sorry for her when he saw her hand was trembling as she set down the mugs. "It's all right, love," he told her quietly. "Just some mates meeting up." She smiled shakily, but looked a bit calmer when she walked away.

"Ta, Orli," Sean said, toasting him. "Still the good boy with the lasses."

"Fuck you," Orlando muttered, feeling himself blush. After all these years, too.

Viggo put his hand on Orlando's for a few seconds, squeezing lightly, then raised his own mug. "To Orlando. It's been far too long."

"To Orlando," Sean said, and they drank, Orlando's face burning even more.

"To you guys," he responded, lifting his own mug in their direction. They looked good, he thought, and repeated it aloud. "You both look good. Happy."

They glanced at each other, Sean smirking, and Orlando felt like an intruder in their silent conversation. "I am," Viggo said at last. "Good to be back in England."

"You're coming tomorrow?" Sean asked Orlando, who smiled.

"Like I'd miss it. Chance to see you prancing around like Ian? Have to tie me up."

"That could be arranged," Sean said darkly, but Orlando could tell he was really pleased.

"Great reviews," Orlando said. "I'm envious." And it was true; he was. Really great reviews, of the entire production. Even talk that it might be moved to a bigger house. "How many times have you seen it?" he asked Viggo.

"Almost every performance, plus almost all the rehearsals," Sean answered for him. "I think he wants a part. Ariel, maybe."

"Alonso," Orlando corrected, and Viggo smiled at him, that smile that over the years had sped up Orlando's heart, made him sweat and blush and smile in return.

"Then you would be my Ferdinand," Viggo told Orlando, nodding, and even Sean smiled.

"We should, fuck it," Sean said. "Elijah could be Ariel."

"Dom would have to be Trinculo," Orlando said, entering the spirit. "And Billy Stephano."

"Who would be Miranda?" Viggo asked.

"Liv," Orlando said firmly. He couldn't imagine their own Miranda as Shakespeare's Miranda; she was too -- too what? Too firmly in the world. She knew no spirits, not the way Liv did.

"When did you last see her?" Viggo asked him.

"Couple of weeks ago. She's as big as house."

"Three babies," Sean smiled. "Lucky Liv."

"I'll say," Orlando agreed. She was the happiest person he knew, and he remained close to her in part because he loved basking in her happiness. It was brilliant being Uncle Orli, too. When he'd last seen her, she'd had him rest his hand on her great belly, and he'd felt the latest addition to her family kicking wildly. "Anxious to get out," she'd said. All her babies had been.

"Aye," Sean agreed; this time, he motioned for the waitress, circling his hand rather wildly around the table. "I knew she'd be a good mother, the way she took you on, Orli."

"Tosser," Orlando mumbled into his beer, but it was true. Liv had been his big sister ever since they met all those years ago, taking care of him when he'd been too stupid to care for himself.

She had also been a great comfort to him when he'd finally figured it out, the slow git he was. Only Liv had seen him cry, holding him tenderly as he wept. She'd been sitting in a leather chair that creaked when she moved, and he had knelt before her, his princess. She'd pulled him near and he lay practically over her lap, wetting her skirt with his tears whilst she stroked his back and murmured soothing nonsense to him.

Now here he sat, dry-eyed and calm, watching his friends. Orlando had read the reviews; they said that Sean made a brilliant Prospero, playing him younger than most actors did, vibrant and deeply sexy, with some mad kinship with Ariel that sparked across the stage and into the audience. He was anxious to see the play.

A thought occurred to Orlando, and he leaned back, staring at them. He put his hands on the table, instantly regretting its stickiness but continuing and pushing himself up. Looking benevolently at them, he said, "Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, long continuance, and increasing, hourly joys be still upon you." He raised his hands above their heads. " Juno sings her blessings upon you."

They stared back at him, Viggo smiling, his eyes soft and a bit vague, Sean looking astonished. The waitress stood next to him shyly, and he took the mugs from her tray, setting them down before Sean and Viggo, before taking his own. He dipped his fingers right through the foam into the beer and then flicked it over first Viggo and then Sean, who ducked.

"Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres' blessing so is on you." He sat, a bit embarrassed, but confident he could write off his behaviour to too much Guinness. Almost anything could be attributed to Guinness, in his experience.

"Thank you, Orlando," Viggo said quietly, and Sean nodded, still looking gobsmacked. The waitress giggled as she left, glancing back at them. The bar was dark and crowded and noisy; no one appeared to be gaping at them, no flashes went off. It was just three old friends.

"Took me long enough to figure it out," he admitted, hiding behind his beer mug.

Viggo smiled ruefully at him, and Orlando felt transparent before his knowledgeable gaze. Sean nodded. "Took me a while to figure it out meself," he said.

Orlando laughed, startled. "What the hell does that mean?"

Was Sean blushing? In this light, it was hard to tell. "Well, Vig here, he might be a warrior-poet, but he's still a bloke, y'know? Me second wife had to sit me down and tell me we was getting' married." He was blushing; Orlando was certain of it. "Not that me and Vig . . . " he trailed off.

"How did you know?" Viggo asked Orlando, and he seemed genuinely curious.

The fourth time, Orlando thought, staring at them. "The Oscars," he finally said.

"But none of us was there," Viggo protested. "I was home with my family, and Sean didn't arrive till after the ceremony. And you were -- where the fuck were you?"

"Um, London, actually. Stayed up all night to watch it live."

"But how?"

"It was so sad, you know? I watched all of it, the pre-shows, the afters, everything I could find on the telly. I saw Dom and Billy on the red carpet, when that horrible woman was interviewing Lij and everything looked wrong. They looked so sad, just off. And Billy disappeared, and Dom cried, and Elijah and Sean, too, and people were so mean about Fran's hair and Peter's tux, and it was so wrong." He stared earnestly at the two men. "It was wrong," he whispered, shocking himself with his anger.

"But, Orli," Sean said, shaking his head. "Me and Vig --"

"I know you weren't there," he said sharply. "That was wrong, too. I stayed up all night, thinking about it, everything, you know? From getting the part, to flying out with Billy, to meeting you, to that crappy fake snow, to all the premieres, to the gossip, the websites, the women, to people I thought were my friends but who just --" Tears came to Orlando's eyes and he gulped at his beer, then wiped his nose. "And I remembered stuff. Like when that creep grabbed Elijah, remember? And you guys showed up like the Sons of Gondor and scared him away and took us home. I saw you sleeping together that night."

To his amazement, both Sean and Viggo turned scarlet; even in the dim light there was no mistaking it, and he suddenly wondered whether they'd done more than sleep that night. "No, no," he explained, embarrassed as well. "Just sleeping, honest. And when Sean and me got stuck in the flood and Pete sent the helicopter, Viggo came, too. I thought it was, I don't know why I thought it was, but I didn't think it was for you, Sean, but it was. Wasn't it."

Sean smiled a bit shamefacedly, and nodded. "Knew I fuckin' hated them things. I bruised his arm and his knee, hanging on to him."

"That night, Oscars night, I remembered it all. I was alone, watching it by myself. So late, right into the next day, right, I couldn't turn it off. Like a movie in my head. It all came back. How you called Viggo a couple of times when we were in Malta, and how Viggo and Henry came down to visit us when we were in Cabo, and reading about you two in London at a hotel bar getting swarmed by people -- I feel so fuckin' stupid."

"No, Orlando," Viggo protested, putting his hands around Orlando's. "We were trying to be discreet. And it wasn't as early as you seem to think. It took us a long time to, well. You know. Girlfriends and children -- sometimes you think you're one way, but you're not that way at all, you just think it."

"I do know. Like that picture of me. Of Leggy. Half and half, not one nor the other."

Viggo smiled and nodded. "That's exactly right. For a long time we weren't one or the other."

"Vig here had to cosh me over the head with it," Sean added, speaking quietly. "He figured it out first."

Viggo looked at Sean so lovingly that Orlando felt he should look away, but he was caught, in envy and love, and watched as Viggo said, "But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book."

"That's my line," Sean said, but he was smiling, too.

You big wally, Orlando thought, but his throat was tight and he couldn't speak. Viggo was still the king, though Sean might play Prospero, and Orlando would remain Viggo's servant, even if not his partner.

He cleared his throat and said to Viggo, "As you from crimes would pardon'd be, let your indulgence set me free."

Sean looked sharply at Orlando, and his smile grew sad as he glanced between Viggo and him.

Viggo tightened his grip on Orlando's hands. "My Orlando, chick, that is thy charge: Be free, and fare thou well." He leaned forward and kissed Orlando's hand, and then, rising, kissed Orlando's forehead. "Be free," he whispered again.

Orlando bowed his head. He would try. He had been trying, but maybe now, with Viggo's blessing on him, he would succeed.

_not ever_

Something had guided the cast, he thought again much later that night, as the taxi jounced along taking him back to his flat. Something beyond coincidence, or even Pete and Fran. Providence divine, he could only suppose, had guided them safely into the harbour of Middle-Earth, and part of him remained there, and if he was alone, at least he was not lonely there.

* * *

Posted May 31, 2007


End file.
